


Bluff

by IceStrike



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Kidnapping, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-28
Updated: 2012-12-25
Packaged: 2017-11-19 17:55:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/576048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IceStrike/pseuds/IceStrike
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty knew he called Sherlock's bluff about not having a heart at the pool, now he was determined to prove it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This does take place after the Great Game but does not go straight into season 2 canon.

It had been three weeks since the incident at the pool and life on Baker Street had fallen back into its normal (yet still very odd) rhythm. 

Cases continued to come in, many of which were dismissed quickly by the world’s only consulting detective, but a few peeked his interests enough (along with John’s prodding) to warrant a trip out of the flat. 

They were on their way back from one such particular case, wrapped up tightly in coats to keep the whipping wind somewhat at bay. John stepped ahead of his lanky friend to open the door to 221 B, ushering the other man inside so he could shut it before the real storm hit. 

“It’s going to be a cold one.” He muttered out loud, even though he didn’t really expect an answer from Sherlock as the brunette bounded his way up the stairs to no doubt check on an experiment he had left in a most inappropriate place.

John sighed and scruffed a hand through his hair as he hung up his own coat and leaving his brown jumper on. He decided on starting a fire, making some tea and trying to get some food into Sherlock before following him up the steps. 

“-needs to stop wasting my time with these boring cases.”  
It didn’t take John more than a moment to realize that Sherlock had probably been speaking the second he entered the living room even though John had not been anywhere around him. 

He smiled faintly at his flat mate, before rounding over to get the kettle.  
“It’s not as if you have much else to do, Sherlock.”

John glanced up to watch as Sherlock began to list off the various experiments he had been working on and how time away from them was time he was wasting. He rattled on about the trails he was running down and that this was some of his more complex work. John tuned him out enough to pull down two mugs from the cabinet and began to scrounge around for some biscuits.

“You saved lives today, Sherlock.” John reminded him quietly. “I think that’s worth taking a break from…” He crinkled his nose as he attempted to find the right words to describe his friend’s current obsession. 

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed at his board filled with clippings and red strings that connected information that only he could decipher and he waved a hand impatiently at John’s remark.  
“Three lives are meaningless.”

John set the mug of hot tea down with a clink and glanced up at his friend, “Sorry, what?”

Sherlock’s hand lashed out and hit the board in frustration, “Three lives are meaningless when compared to the network that Moriarty has set up!” 

John felt his shoulders tense at Sherlock’s words. He had grown used to his friend having a sort of distance when it came to people but he still didn’t enjoy listening to Sherlock be dismissive of someone’s life. 

“I thought your brother was running down Moriarty’s network.”

“The only thing Mycroft will run down is a pastry cart.” 

John’s eyes flickered around the room, finding his own patience. He knew that incident at the pool triggered something in Sherlock and he had been worried that it would lead to something terrible and now it seemed his worries had not been unfounded. He knew why Sherlock wanted to find Moriarty but Mycroft had been right to advise John to keep Sherlock’s attention elsewhere for the time being. Moriarty knew how to hit all the right buttons, even without being around.  
“Right then.” 

Sherlock turned, the tone in John’s voice breaking him from the board, “You know I’m right.”

“Yes.” John agreed heavily, “Moriarty’s network has probably killed more than three people…”

“Why are you upset then?” Sherlock asked, sounding genuinely puzzled. 

“Because every life should matter, not simply the ones you deem necessary.” John ground out. 

The rain was hitting the windows of their flat hard and it only made the moment more somber. 

When Sherlock did not reply, John set the biscuits down next to his flatmate’s mug.  
“Try to eat.”

John decided to ignore his own cup of tea in favor of something stronger and without another word to Sherlock; he walked out the door and back down the stairs to grab his coat. He wasn’t exactly thrilled about braving the weather again but there was a quiet pub only a block or two away, he could handle some wind for a bit. 

 Sherlock only glanced away from his board again when he heard the door open and shut. He strolled over to the window to watch John’s path as he normally did when he noticed the Doctor leaving. Quickly noting his friend’s stride and direction, he deduced that he was heading towards a pub. 

 Satisfied that John would get there without much trouble, Sherlock picked up his violin and began to play. He closed his eyes as the music coursed through his body and allowed his mind to open up even more as he thought over facts and leads.  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

When John finally pushed open the door to the pub, his ears were pink with cold and the warmth of the room was welcomed with a weary sigh. 

The place was nearly empty save for the regulars who would not let anything, even some poor weather, stop them.

The pub was dimly lit with black stools pressed up against the wood panel bar. There were a few booths in the corner but only one man was sitting in one. 

John nodded a greeting to the bar tender and ordered himself a brew, hunching over and tiredly watching the small television in the upper left corner of the room. 

“You look like you’ve had a day.”

John turned his head slowly to the right and spotted the man who had been in the booths ten minutes ago now sitting next to him.

“You could say that…” John replied as politely as he could. He took a long drink from his glass and kept his eyes up on the television. 

The man stayed on the stool next to John, drinking his beer and texting someone somewhat regularly. He and John swapped comments about the show on the television and it wasn’t much longer before the man offered to buy the next round.

John agreed and turned a bit to face the man again, “I’m sorry; I don’t believe I caught your name.” 

“Moran. Sebastian Moran.”

John picked up the new drink and held it up in thanks, “John Watson.” 

Moran gave a faint grin and the two once again fell into the comfortable silence they had been sharing. He took another long drink out of his glass and glanced down as his phone went off once more, vibrating quietly in his pocket. He fished it out of his pocket and quickly read the message from his boss.

**Take him.**


	2. Dread

Moran and John each bought the other another round, now becoming more and more talkative with each other.

They spent another hour talking about their favorite football teams which turned into a somewhat intense discussion. The bar tender walked up to them, wiping down a glass with a raised eyebrow.  
“Last call, gents.”

John, who was now pleasantly buzzed, waved off Moran’s offer of one last drink.  
“I should get home…”  
They settled their tab and Moran heaved on his heavy coat, waiting politely for John at the door.

“It’s raining.” John hummed in disappointment as they stepped out of the pub and into the drizzle. The doctor steadied himself on his feet for a moment before steeling his body to step into the weather. He waved a farewell to Moran and began walking back towards Baker Street.

“Wait, John…”  
John turned on his heel and for a moment all he could feel was a blinding pain and then darkness. 

Moran caught John before the other man slammed into the cement and hauled him into the alley. He pulled out his phone once more and read the latest message, looking up when a car came to a stop right in front of him. Moran picked John up easily and shoved him in the backseat of the can, slamming the door behind himself and barking orders at the driver. 

The car pulled back into the street and quickly headed off in the opposite direction of Baker Street.  
\------------------------------------------------------------

 

“John.”  
Sherlock called up the stairs towards John’s room, holding a plate of somewhat burnt toast.

“John? Lestrade has a case for us. I made you toast.”

Sherlock started up the stairs leading towards John’s roof, thoroughly convinced that the other man would be please of his breakfast offering. He had seen John eat toast before and he even added a bit of butter and jam to complete the meal. He gripped John’s door handle and pushed it open, heedless of the social norm of privacy.   
Sherlock took stock of the room in an instant.

No new clothes in the hamper.

Bed not slept in.

Rain coat still on hanger.

Conclusion: John never came home last night. 

Sherlock frowned as he shut the door and went back down to the kitchen to throw out the toast. He hadn’t expected John to go home with anyone last night but he supposed that the doctor’s luck wasn’t all bad when it came to women. 

Sherlock pulled out his phone and sent a quick text to John as he marched over to the couch to grab his scarf, wrapping it quickly around his neck. He frowned again when his ringtone went off, not his normal text alert, but his call one. He looked at his phone’s screen and saw it was John, but John knew about his preference to text…

Sherlock answered the cell and brought it up to his ear, listening instead of using a greeting.

“How have you been, my dear?” 

“Moriarty.”

He could hear the glee in the other man’s voice and his mind could even picture the look on the consulting criminal’s face. 

“Where is John?”

“Straight to the point, as always. What happened to our banter? Our flirting? Come now, Sherlock, you know how I live for those moments.”

Sherlock clicked his teeth done in annoyance which only caused Moriarty to laugh as he continued to speak, 

“Relax, your pet is here with me. Would you like to speak with him?”

The criminal’s voice went distant and Sherlock strained to hear all the background noise he could pick up, hoping for clues on John’s whereabouts.

“Pick him up—no, hold him up, that’s right…” Moriarty’s voice was ordering some of his men and then Sherlock heard him address John, “Your Master is on line one…”

“John?”

“Sh’lock?” John’s voice was weak and a bit slurred, “…don’t come. Sherlock, don’t come---“

John’s voice cut out with a low groan and Moriarty’s returned, gleeful as ever. 

“Poor thing; got himself a bit banged up. No matter though, it’s only a start.”

“What do you want?”

True laughter came over the line, cold and cruel, and a sound that only Jim Moriarty could create, “What does it matter? His life is meaningless compared to those my network will kill!”

Sherlock felt something in his chest go cold and his breath hitched for a moment, his icy blue eyes now scanning the main room of the flat. He was searching for a camera or a recorder that he knew had to be there.

“…but I suppose that is not fair, after all, I did say that people get so attached to their pets. You can pick him up from me, provided you bring me something.”

Sherlock, who had continued to look for the camera, spotted it between a few seats of his books. Moriarty’s men had been skilled and the dust on the books had barely been disturbed. Sherlock pulled it out and held it up in his hand.

“What is it you want me to bring?”

“Your brother has the location of some new tech I am interested in. I’ll text you the details…oh, and don’t bother trying to trace that camera. It wouldn’t do to dally—“

A snap from fingers and then a cry from John forced Sherlock to put the device down on the desk after ensuring it was off. 

“After all, I’ve never owned a pet myself. I might be a bit rough with it.”

The line cut out and Sherlock Holmes was left standing in his flat, taking a full minute to plan his next move. 

He quickly sent a text out to Lestrade, informing him that he would be unable to assist at his crime scene. The next text went to Mycroft with words that Sherlock never thought he would send to his brother,

**We need to meet. Now. –SH**

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Moriarty slipped John’s phone back into his suit jacket and turned sharply on his heel to survey the current status of John Watson.

The doctor was on his knees, hunched so far forward that his forehead was touching the cement floor of the warehouse they were currently in. He had a few visible bruises on his arms and face after Moran had rid him of his jumper and coat.

Two of Moriarty’s men were standing on either side of John, each armed with a gun and each giving the doctor completely apathetic glances as the blonde doctor shivered with cold and pain. 

“How are you doing there, Johnny boy?” Moriarty knelt down in front of John, a sly grin on his face as he pictured the look on Sherlock’s when he saw his friend. “Still got some fight—“

John Watson, to his credit, had a lot of fight left in him and when Moriarty entered his personal space to mock him, the solider launched up with such speed that the punch landed on the criminal’s chin with almost full force. 

The criminal fell back on his hands, laughing as his guards quickly set themselves upon the doctor, kicking him roughly. Moriarty allowed this to go on for another minute before he stopped his enforcers with a raised hand.

“Enough for now. Lock him up but make sure he doesn’t freeze.” As the guards hauled John back to his feet, Moriarty made sure to lock eyes with the other man, “I’ll be checking on him soon.” 

He waved as John was hauled away, rubbing his chin as soon as the captive was out of sight. 

“That was a nasty clip.” Moran’s voice came from behind and Moriarty rolled his eyes at his subordinate. 

“I pay you to prevent these sorts of things, Sebastian.” 

Moran shrugged and walked over to Moriarty, taking the criminal’s chin in his hand to look at the damage himself, “I can’t be in two places at once.”

Moriarty jerked himself from the gunman’s grip with a glare, “I expect you to return the favor to ol’ Johnny boy, when you get the chance. And also, teach those other two what it actually means to be a bodyguard.”

Moran nodded as his boss stalked off, no doubt to get some ice and to plan the next stage of Sherlock’s torment.


	3. Experiment

Mycroft Holmes was sitting behind his posh desk with his mobile placed out in front of himself and Sherlock’s most recent text shining up at him. It had been nearly thirty minutes since the text arrived and Mycroft had already pieced together that it had something to do with one of the few people Sherlock considered (but rarely admitted) he was close to. 

Mycroft glanced up when he heard heels clicking at a rapid pace and a moment later his office door burst open and he found himself staring up at his younger brother. 

He had seen Sherlock in all sorts of states growing up, from a tearful child who had scraped his knee to an indifferent junkie who could not be bothered to remember to eat, but Mycroft was always surprised when he saw fear flicker in his brother’s stormy eyes. It was an emotion his brother fought tooth and claw to never feel and for the most part, he succeeded at it thoroughly. 

“Sherlock, I don’t suppose-“

“You failed, Mycroft.” 

Sherlock’s hands slammed down onto his older brother’s desk, his teeth clicking together in fury as papers fluttered about. 

Mycroft, to his credit, remained carefully neutral. He cleared his throat and ignored the mess that his brother had just created, too used to cleaning up after the younger man to mind.

“And in what way have I failed?”

“You were supposed to be keeping track of Moriarty’s whereabouts.” 

Mycroft pressed his fingertips underneath his chin, deliberately opposing Sherlock’s almost frantic pace, “And I have, even though I was told by you a dead bloodhound could do a better job than me.”

“Then, tell me brother, why he now has John.” 

Mycroft’s suspicions were confirmed but the news still did surprise him. John had the same amount of surveillance that Sherlock did when he went out but nothing about John disappearing had reached him yet. He didn’t bother to ask if Sherlock knew for certain it was Moriarty, instead he leaned over his desk and let his finger hover over his intercom button.

“What was John’s last known location, Sherlock?”

“He went to the corner pub, a few blocks from the flat.”

Mycroft did some mental calculations before pushing down on the button, “Anthea, please get me footage from last night for sections BBA3 and BBA4.”

“I don’t need to see how he was taken, Mycroft!”

“Well perhaps Sherlock, I do.” Mycroft’s patience was at its peak, he had always had a bit of soft spot for the doctor, “What is it that you need though?”

“The location of the new weaponized drone.” 

“You know I can’t give you that.”

Sherlock looked a bit dumbfounded, emotion had overruled logic for brief moment in his mind but the balance was quickly restored, “That was Moriarty’s price for John’s return.”

“If James Moriarty was able to get his hands on the location for a drone that could bomb half of London without being detected…well I can’t imagine John being happy with that trade.” 

Mycroft’s computer screen lit up a second later and CCTV footage began to play, showing a clear view of the entrance to the pub. 

It showed John leaving the pub with another man. They seemed to exchange a few words before John started to walk off in the direction of Baker street. They watched as the other man waited before following John. The angle of the camera changed and the Holmes brothers saw the man attack and take down John in a manner of moments. 

“Get me a still of that man.” Sherlock ordered but Mycroft waved him off.

“We don’t need it, I know that man. Sebastian Moran, ex-military and Moriarty’s right hand.”

Sherlock leaned over Mycroft to replay the video, his eyes scanning for things that even his brother would miss.

“He checks his mobile before following John. This attack wasn’t planned, merely coincidence.” 

Sherlock furrowed his brow. Of course Moriarty’s men would be well versed in what he and John looked like while many of them still remained in the shadows, danger lurking in their enmity.  
A nasty voice in the back of Sherlock’s brilliant brain also reminded him that since the attack was coincidence that if he had not upset John enough for him to go out, this wouldn’t have happened. 

“Why was John out last night, Sherlock? It isn’t one of his usual pub nights and the weather isn’t exactly his favorite.”

Mycroft once again showed his annoying ability to often hit the nail on the head when it came to Sherlock’s thoughts.

“It doesn’t matter why John was out, Mycroft.” Sherlock sneered, “If all you’re going to do is ask pointless questions, I might as well go see Lestrade.” 

Sherlock leaned over his brother once more to turn off the looping CCTV video before stalking off out of the office.

It would be sometime before Mycroft Holmes realized he had been pickpocketed.

 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Sebastian Moran walked down to wear two of the three guards who had been assigned to Watson stood with their noses red and their eyes black.

“What the hell happened?” Moran barked, grabbing one of them roughly by the scruff of his neck. 

“We went in to give ‘im some water and the bloody bastard jumped us!”

“Where’s Vernon then?” 

“Broken wrist. Took off to go get it set.”

Moran fumed at the idea his handpicked men were put in their place by a doctor who wore cuddly jumpers. He had managed to take down Watson on his own and get him back here in one piece and now he was surrounded by fools who couldn’t even manage to give Watson a damn tea tray. The doctor had definitely recovered enough after his earlier beating.

“Get out of here before I decide to finish what Watson started.” Moran snapped and the other two guards rushed off.

Dimly from the cell Moran could hear a chuckle, “Everything alright out there, Mr. Moran?” 

“Keep it up, Watson and I’ll break your legs.” Moran growled out. As far as he was concerned the only mistake that had been made around here was by Watson himself, Moran would not underestimate his abilities again. 

“You’re welcome to come in here any time.” Watson’s voice wasn’t challenging but Moran could hear the ice in it. 

“I’ll be back later to give you what you’re owed. Or I might just save it all and crack the skull of that mop headed detective of yours.” 

Moran listened to Watson shuffle around for a moment, “You could try, I suppose.” 

Moran growled once more and walked away from the cell, no longer amused by Watson’s dry banter. He found another set of guards for the doctor along the way and issued an order to remain out of the cell unless directly ordered otherwise by himself or Moriarty. 

Moran then walked himself back to Moriarty’s office, knocking once but opening the door in the same motion. His boss was seated in a fine leather chair with televisions scattered around himself. 

“Tell me, Seb, why I have guards who can’t handle a single doctor?”

Moran shrugged moodily and kept silent, waiting to see which way Jim’s mood would go. 

“Shoot one of them next time you see them, will you?”

“I could just put a bullet into Watson’s brain while I’m at it too.”

Moriarty looked offended at the idea, “Where’s the fun in that? Oh I’m not saying we can’t but Sherlock has to be watching if we do.”

Moran sneered at the detective’s name, “You don’t even need the drone’s location.”

“This isn’t about drone locations…just as it wasn’t about missile plans before.” Moriarty responded coolly as he motioned for his gunman to come closer. “This is simply an experiment in human emotion.”   
Moriarty stood up gracefully, reaching out and wrapping his hands into Moran’s lapel. 

“Go visit the good doctor like I asked you to earlier but record it and make sure it gets sent to Sherlock as soon as you’re through.” The criminal practically purred out his words, “Come see me when you’re done.”


End file.
